Page 29 of Penalty Kiss
She jerks a breath. I take the phone away from her, my body already braced, instincts lighting up like sirens.
“Get in my car,” I murmur, mouth brushing her ear, low and lethal. “We’re going to your place. Until this is over, I’m not leaving your side.”
Chapter 6
Secrets & Confessions
Tara
My coffee maker is a traitor. It gurgles knowingly like it’s in on the secret—steam curling against the morning light that's brave enough to sneak through my blinds. I'm moving on autopilot—measure, pour, press—while my eyes keep drifting to the couch where Cameron Wilder is sprawled like a magnificent beast.
His long limbs are everywhere—staging a hostile takeover of my living room. One arm dangles off the cushions, knuckles brushing the hardwood. The throw blanket —my throw blanket—has officially surrendered. It’s slipped down past his waist, barely clinging to his hips for dear life, leaving an expanse of chest and shoulders that should come with a warning label. I should probably be a lady and fix it, but I’m not. I’m an opportunist. A shameless, appreciative brat at that.
The morning light catches the Korean angles of his cheekbones, the Danish breadth of his frame, and I'm struck again by how beautiful he is—like a sculptorhad carved him from marble and then as a final party trick, went,‘And now… he breathes.’
The bandage on his temple is stark white against his skin, a reminder of why he's here. Why I let him convince me to turn my quiet sanctuary into a safe house.
Last night feels like a fever dream. The photo on my phone—us at the bistro, taken from across the street—had sent ice water through my veins. Then Cam's voice, low and dangerous: "Get in my car. We're going to your place. Until this is over, I'm not leaving your side."
I'd wanted to argue. Should have argued. Instead, I'd let him drive me home, watched him on the phone with Chief Alvarez, do a security sweep of my cottage like some kind of hockey-playing Secret Service agent, then listened to him charm my neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Hotchkiss, into "keeping an eye out for anything unusual".
The whole thing was absurd. He doesn't just sit on my couch; he established a forward operating base. It’s absolutely ridiculous. And utterly hot.
He's got his phone charger primed like a weapon, keys strategically placed... it's a freaking tactical operation in my living room. His whole body was positioned like a watch dog, giving him a clear sightline to the front doorandthe hallway to my bedroom. At one point he even grinned and said, “If I had my stick, I’d be golden. Guess your broom will have to do.”
Then he'd looked at me with those maple-warm eyes and said, "Try to get some sleep, roommate. I've got this."
A man this competent and in charge had no business being so distracting. He was doing unholy things to my insides. All I could think was how good it would feel to let him keep me safe… and how much more I wanted him to do things that were anything but restful with me.
I'd locked my bedroom door. Not because I feared him—but because I didn’t trust myself.
Every time he’d moved through my space, checking windows and testing locks, I’d imagined what it would feel like towake up tangled in his arms instead of alone in my mirror-walled bedroom.
He’d noticed those mirrors, of course—threw me a grin and said,“Careful, angel. Mirrors and I have a history. I tend to steam them up.”I’d laughed like it was nothing, but my cheeks burned hot enough to give me away.
Which is why I twisted the bedroom lock hard after. A virgin doesn’t survive comments like that unscathed. Not when every nerve in her body is begging for things she’s only ever read about.
Damn those Emma Bloom paperbacks.
Now, watching him sleep, the want hits me like a physical ache.
His chest rises and falls in the steady rhythm of deep sleep. Dark hair falls across his forehead, and there's something boyish about his relaxed features that makes my heart do complicated things. He looks peaceful. Safe. Like he belongs here.
Whoa. Careful, Tara.
A soft sound escapes his throat—not quite a snore, more like a contented rumble—and his eyes flutter open. For a moment, he's completely still, pupils adjusting to the light. Then his gaze finds mine across the small space, and his expression remains utterly, devastatingly blank.
My smile quickly evaporates. He’s looking rightthroughme.
Oh no. His PCS. He’s woken up with his brain completely wiped. Does he even remember his own name? Do I have to teach him how to use a fork?
I lean forward, flapping my hands like a frantic crossing guard, my voice shooting up into a squeaky, too-cheerful register.
“Hi! Good morning! You’re Cam! I’m Tara! You’re in my house in Cedar Falls! This is not a kidnapping! And we definitely did not have a one-night stand. You were just, um, standing guard because of a stalker, which is a whole other thing, and then you fell asleep on my couch. Totally normal! See? Fine! Normal!”
He blinks once. Twice. Letting my frantic babbling hang in the air for a torturous second. Then, a slow, wicked grin spreads across his face.
"Well, well, well." His voice is rough with sleep, gravelly in a way that sends heat spiraling through me. "If it isn't my favorite coffee saboteur, looking like sin in pajamas."
